5. You Read Too Many Books
Chapter five
You Read Too Many Books
T ruthfully, it wasn’t hard for me to believe that Wren, the portal and the caenim were real. I probably would have believed it even if John hadn’t set the example of taking the otherworldly chaos in his stride.
As a genre, I liked fantasy more than horror and self-help books, but less than everything else. However, I’d read enough about faeries to face this one prepared. I knew there couldn’t possibly be so many veracious accounts of them, disguised as fiction, for the one in front of me to be an apparition or a kook.
Wren fit the bill perfectly.
He was obnoxious, rude, and cocky. He had the most mindlessly handsome face I had ever seen. In the short time that I’d known him, I had witnessed his predisposition to violence and cruelty, and it had quickly become apparent that he had very little understanding of his own supernatural strength.
I had no idea what the destruction of a portal entailed precisely, but I had a feeling that the commotion on the upper level of Dante’s was melodramatic at best.
Though he moved with the grace and stealth of any apex predator, the force of Wren’s footsteps sent the entire bookstore trembling beneath him as he marched across the second floor and commenced smashing the entire space into smithereens.
Wood groaned as it was pried apart, glass shattered between the deafening bang and crash of impacts as things were thrown from one side of the room to the other, and Wren roared like some sort of monster as he destroyed irreplaceable books and anything else that had the misfortune of residing up there.
When John slunk out of the office with his fist clenched around the ribbon of an oversized key, I gave him a beseeching look through the tears streaming down my face.
He simply shook his head at me. “Dinnae fash,” he muttered. “It must be done.”
Another roar from the High Fae bastard upstairs sent the body of the caenim on the rafters falling to the floor with a soft thud, followed by silence. Swaying a little as I climbed to my feet, I swallowed my sadness so I was free to mouth curses at Wren for worsening the destruction of my beloved bookstore.
I do not have time to cry about it. There is never enough time for me to properly cry about anything.
Another minute passed before Wren reappeared downstairs, swaggering out of an aisle like he didn’t have a care in the world. He made a point of ignoring me and eyed the key dangling from John’s grip instead.
“If you’re High Fae,” I began, squaring my shoulders as I leaned in to catch his eye, “then why don’t you lose the glamour?”
A muscle in Wren’s jaw worked as he gave me a sidelong glance. “You read too many books.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Is it done?” John cut in, eternally unperturbed. He was answered by a sharp nod. “Good. Good. Here—take this.” He unclenched his fingers to display the key on his weary palm.
Wren angled his head to one side and gave him a wry look. “The floor, please.”
“Oh! Aye!” With a shake of his head, John braced a hand on one knee as he bent down to place the key on the hardwood floor. He took a step backwards and gestured to it with both hands. “Please.”
Blinding light filled the room without warning. It was so bright that, for a moment, I could see nothing but a delicate, glittering sheen of white, silver, and gold. Strangely, it wasn’t painful to behold. Images bobbed in front of my eyes, obscured by the light, so faint that I could hardly make out their shapes.
But they were there.
Two people basking in the glow, embracing each other as the light wrapped around them like a swaddle, dancing through time and space—
And then it was gone, swallowed by the hole burned through the floor where the key was only a moment ago.
A small, wimpish groan reverberated from the back of my throat. The hole was tiny as far as holes went, but the list of repairs and maintenance Dante’s would require just kept growing.
“Done,” Wren declared proudly. He counted with his fingers. “Demolition of portal, check. Obliteration of key, check.”
I started to roll my eyes, but he moved into my line of sight.
I froze, stunned. As requested, he’d lost the glamour.
Wren stood even taller than before, and two elongated, pointed ears poked out of either side of his head. He certainly hadn’t used the glamour to dull his beauty or stature; however, a silver chain had appeared around his neck alongside silver rings on his fingers, and he had what looked to be crystal piercings through his earlobes. Noticing my gaze, he flashed a grin at me, full of gleaming white teeth, including two large, flesh-shredding canines.
I finished rolling my eyes.
Apex predator, indeed.
I’d read somewhere that vanity was the greatest weakness of the High Fae, so I mentally ticked that off my list of rumours that were true.
“That sixth caenim will be out there, tracking your scent,” Wren went on casually, toeing the edge of the burn hole with his boot. “You can stay here—”
“ My scent?” I interrupted, panic rising in my voice.
“Yes, your scent.” He surveyed me for a moment, eyes gleaming as he digested my expression. “I take it back. Clearly, you don’t read enough books.” He sighed. “I told you the caenim are like pets. They’re the property of a wicked race of faeries, used as foot soldiers or cannon fodder. They’re slow, deaf, and blind but well-trained in their other senses, and the only way to stop them and get rid of that nasty stench,” he added, crinkling his perfect nose, “is to kill them. Their one redeeming quality is that they’re usually a fun fight.” He winked at me, irises on fire.
I absently blinked back at him.
“They were hunting you, Auralie,” he clarified, as if the truth wasn’t already screaming alarm bells in my head and waiting for me to catch up.
They’re tracking me by scent.
“Brynn,” I whispered. And then I was gone before the High Fae brute could stop me, sliding across the sticky green blood drying on the entryway’s floor before I fled out into the dark cobblestone street.
Jonah’s car was purring against the curb, keys still in the ignition. Avoiding the baby seat in the back, I climbed in and slammed the door closed just as Wren came stalking out of Dante’s Bookstore with a sour expression on his face.
He became a shadow trailing me in the rearview mirror as I tore down the road and over the bridge, nearly sending the car skidding as I made a sharp right turn into my street. I saw our townhouse up ahead, the light from the front porch pouring out in a rectangular beam across the dead lawn. The screen and wooden doors were closed, the second-storey windows still intact. My hands trembled wildly as I half-fell out of the car and stumbled over the gravel, listening for the sound of my mother or little sister screaming.
The house was quiet.
In the distance, a dog barked. Crickets and frogs were singing in the reeds down by the river.
I’m too late, too late…
Nearly colliding with the wood, I fumbled to pull my house key from my bag. It took me two attempts to insert it into the lock. Handle slipping against my clammy palms, I finally wrenched the stupid thing open with a loud bang.
The hallway was dark. Faint light loomed at the end, coming from the kitchen. My mother’s bedroom door was partially closed beside me. The television set cast a faint white glow on the walls of the sitting room up ahead. Static filled my ears as I crept towards it, easing my weight onto each foot gently to make my steps as silent as the night. I craned my neck to peer around the door, heart pounding like a racehorse in my chest.
A shadow rose up on the wall in the sitting room, and then—
“Aura?” My mother’s voice came from behind me. “You’re home late. I was getting worried.”
Whirling around, breathless, I found my mother standing in her bedroom doorway, completely unharmed. She was already in her pyjamas—a set of pink satin, with the hem of her long pants tucked into a pair of fuzzy socks.
I glanced behind me. “Ma—”
The shadowed figure emerged from the sitting room, and my heart sank so low that it was no longer a connected part of my being. It was adjacent. Disconnected. Detached.
Because there was my father, a can of beer in hand.
“Auralie.” His hoarse voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “You’ve caused your mother a great deal of stress tonight.”
For a moment—for just one awful, fleeting moment—I wished the caenim had followed me there so they could rip that man’s head clean off his body.
Gritting my teeth, I turned back to my mother. She was my mirror image in looks—pear-shaped figure and heart-shaped face, a straight nose, and the splotch of a strawberry birthmark in almost the exact same spot as mine, above her left eyebrow—but my opposite in personality. She looked as tired as I felt. Her hair was down, hanging in loose curls over her shoulders, and her face was wan.
“Where’s Brynn?” I asked.
“Asleep.” My mother tilted her head to the side, a sad smile cracking across her face. “Are you okay?”
“What is he doing here?” I mouthed.
She straightened up and swallowed tightly, a silent but familiar warning. “Go check on your sister,” she urged.
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
Turning on my heels, I swept down the hall without sparing a glance in the bastard’s direction as I passed him. The potent, fermented smell of beer filled my nose, and I considered stopping to spit the bile in my mouth out onto his shoes.
But I didn’t.
I went straight to the narrow staircase at the end of the hall and clomped up to the second level.
“When you come down, you’ll answer to me for what you’ve done, you little bitch!” the drunkard downstairs called after me.
What I’ve done—
Anger flushed through my veins. My chest filled with hot coals and a cataclysmic pressure.
“Easy,” Wren purred from the shadows.
For some reason, I wasn’t at all surprised to find him standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall beside my bedroom. I still stopped on the top step and glared at him, but the pressure eased. My anger deflated like hot air from a balloon.
In the dim light coming from my sister’s room at the far end of the hall, his beautiful face was painted in a subtle shade of pink. He was a vision of calm and pretty things.
“It’s not here,” he whispered. “Your sister is sleeping peacefully, dreaming of a handsome High Fae Prince—”
I flicked his arm, careful not to break my nail on his bicep. “Of course you’d think of yourself as a Prince.”
Wren’s laughter was silent as he extended that large, muscular arm towards her room and nodded. “See for yourself.”
Oh, I intend to. I trust a faerie man about as much as I trust a human one.
Our father coming back usually meant that he’d gambled and drunk his livelihood away. It always brought him to Belgrave again to prey on my mother’s inability to stand up for herself—and her children—and my little sister’s desire to see her father through the child-sized, rose-coloured glasses that I’d handed down to her.
As I padded up to her door, I prayed that she hadn’t seen him yet. I prayed that she hadn’t felt that bubbling excitement, hopeful for her upcoming birthday to be celebrated as a complete family unit just this once.
He would be gone before then.
He never stayed long—and this time, I would make sure of it. Because with that man in the house, we were in as much danger as we would be if the caenim were in his place.
Brynn was fast asleep, like Wren said. Curled up beneath the blankets, with her stuffed animals arranged around her on the bed, she was breathing deeply and evenly. The curtains were drawn across her open window, overlooking the riverbank and pulling in the scent of brine and damp soil. Some of her washing had spilled out of the basket and onto her fluffy rug, but…
There was no sign of intrusion.
Her night light was sitting on her bedside table, casting the shapes of long-winged fairies and five-pointed stars onto the ceiling and the wall in a soft pink glow.
My cheeks heated as I felt Wren’s smug gaze fall on me from behind. He wasn’t wrong about her dreams, either. I’d forgotten that Brynn was right into her fairy phase—not the same kind of faerie, but close enough.
Satisfied that she was safe, I pulled her door partially closed and retreated down the hall to where Wren remained beside my bedroom door.
He raised an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Do you believe me now?”
I nodded, dragging in a deep and rocky breath.
Wren jerked his chin towards the staircase, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Who is that man?
No one. He’s no one.
He rolled his eyes at me when I didn’t answer and shoved away from the wall, which crackled beneath the force. “I get the feeling you don’t like faeries as much as your sister does,” he whispered.
“She likes the nice ones,” I hissed. I knew that I had to go back downstairs, that I was delaying it. “Not the real kind, apparently.”
He placed his hand over his heart in mock outrage. “I’m nice.”
“Your bedside manner is dreadful.”
“I told you, I’m not a—”
Wren never finished his sentence. He never got the chance.
It didn’t matter that I knew what he was planning to say, or that faeries and monsters were real, or that the two of them had torn Dante’s Bookstore apart like it was a battlefield, or even that my father had weaselled his way back into my home.
Every single one of those things ceased to exist when the cry rang out from downstairs. A cry of terror that I’d heard before too many times.
My mother.